


annus primus

by hufflepuffhermione



Category: The West Wing
Genre: A little bit of angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, a bit of everything really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29655735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflepuffhermione/pseuds/hufflepuffhermione
Summary: The first year of the Santos administration, in twelve movements.
Relationships: Josh Lyman/Donna Moss
Comments: 29
Kudos: 123





	annus primus

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The West Wing a few months ago, and I've never been so inspired to write as I have been for Josh and Donna, so I'm beyond excited to finally share something for this fandom. I have another more extensive WIP that I will hopefully be able to post soon, but the scenes from this came to me a few days ago and wouldn't leave me alone... so this happened.

_january._

In the chaos of a brand new administration, it takes him a few days to find the ten minutes for a trek to the East Wing. It’s not like he wanted to avoid Donna’s office, not at all, but there are a thousand things competing for his attention at any given moment, so slipping away is proving even harder than he expected.

But he finally gets the chance to leave his office for lunch on a Sunday afternoon, and rather than head to the mess, he finds his way towards the East Wing. There’s a new assistant— _Donna_ has an assistant, he notes with pride—and he doesn’t recognize her, and she, evidently doesn’t recognize him, and so she asks him, naively, if he has an appointment.

“No, but she’ll see me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Lyman.” That really should clue her in; after all, he’s the White House Chief of Staff, not to mention her boss’s boyfriend, and if she doesn’t…

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lyman, but without an appointment…”

He rolls his eyes and steps past the desk, yelling “DONNA!” towards the offices, since he doesn’t know which is hers. It feels odd, a sense of displaced deja vu washing over him as her name rolls off her lips.

“In the East Wing, we use the intercom.” She’s in front of her office door, dressed down as much as a weekend in the White House will allow, and though she gives him a look of disapproval, he knows her well enough to sense a little bit of delight that he finally came.

“Your assistant here didn’t know who I was.”

“Maddie,” Donna says, turning to the white-faced assistant. “This is Josh Lyman. He’s the White House Chief of Staff, and he’s allowed to come over without an appointment and interrupt me whenever he likes.” She links her arm with his and leads him toward her office before Maddie can stammer out an apology. “She’s new.”

“You were much more competent when you were new.”

“Not everyone can be me, now can they?”

He grins. “No.”

She pushes the door open and reveals a large, ornate, well-appointed office. Josh's jaw drops as he takes it in. A few minutes ago, he had been trying to wrap his head around the idea of Donna having an assistant, but this… He swallows and turns to observe her wide-eyed expression, before lighting up. “Donna, this is three times the size of my office!”

“It’s a little much, I admit, but…”

“No, no, this is amazing!” He spins around and grins, bouncing on his heels. He’s barely slept since inauguration day, but the excitement of a new administration has instilled him with a new sense of energy, and it’s showing. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing. You know what you need in here? You need a couch.”

Donna furrows her brow. “What for?”

“Well, my office is right next to the Oval, so it’s probably pretty risky in there, at least before he goes back to the residence, but this is much more private…”

“Josh, what the hell are you talking about?” she demands, and then her jaw drops as she catches his meaning. “Joshua!”

He doesn’t stifle his grin. “Donnatella, have you ever done it in the White House?”

“Of course I haven’t,” she says, hitting his arm.

“Get yourself a couch and one of these nights, after you’ve sent your thickheaded assistant home, we’ll experiment.”

Donna tries to look offended and disgusted, but she can't stop herself from laughing. “Fine, but I’m taking the couch from your office.”

“That's my couch, though!”

“If you have a couch in your office, you’ll sleep in your office. I’d really rather you sleep in your own bed, for entirely selfish reasons.”

Josh shakes his head. “I’m not gonna sleep in my office.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He takes his hand in hers, and he's overwhelmed with warmth and love and admiration. She’s achieved so much. Had he held her back? Had he stifled her because he held on too tight? He pushes away the regrets that want to claw at him, and instead lets himself gaze at her, place her in this office, and marvel at her achievements. He had almost lost her, but now she’s his again, and she’s herself, and they’re together, and nothing can stop them now. They have a long four, maybe eight years ahead of them, but he knows they’re up for the challenge. “I'm not gonna sleep in my office,” he repeats, “because I have something very important to come home to.”

_february._

The first bouquet shows up on her desk in the early days of February. It’s massive and overstated and she’s really not sure if she wants to kill him or kiss him. She thinks through a mental calendar of events past and present to think what might have prompted this display, but her search for answers is inconclusive.

He didn't send a note with them, either, which is unlike him. Even a romantic gesture from him typically involves some sort of gloat.

She pushes aside the stack of papers that she really should have gotten through yesterday and picks up the phone, dialing the four numbers that she’s sure are going to be worn out at the end of four years.

“Josh Lyman.” It’s Margaret’s voice on the other end.

“Hey Margaret, it’s Donna. Is he available?”

“He’s in a meeting. But it’s with the Republican leadership, so I’d say yes.”

Donna smirks. “Don’t interrupt him. Not until he starts yelling, at least. But tell him to call me back when he gets the chance.”

She puts down the phone and leans back in her chair, taking a moment to soak it all in. It’s been good, so far, working in the East Wing. The First Lady, while reluctant, is beginning to assume her role with more confidence, and Donna no longer feels staggeringly under-qualified, just somewhat under-qualified. She isn’t working under Josh anymore—while she misses working so closely with him, this arrangement is really much better for their relationship, not to mention HR purposes—and she is instrumental in developing and executing the First Lady’s agenda. She never thought she’d get here. How far she’s come from the young, terrified girl in New Hampshire, hiring herself onto a spoiler campaign.

The phone rings and Donna picks it up. “Donnatella!” comes the cheerful voice from the other side, and it could only be one person. “Margaret said you called. What do you need?”

“It can wait if you’re busy.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting with the House minority leader, so I’m perfectly happy to make him wait a few more minutes.”

“The flowers.”

“What about them?”

“They’re beautiful, Josh, but… was there a reason for them?”

“Can I not just send my girlfriend flowers on a whim?”

“It is somewhat out of character.”

“They’re for our anniversary.”

She turns to look at the calendar on her wall, and notices the date. February 6th. Yes, it’s the anniversary of the day they met. The day she entered a New Hampshire storefront and her life changed forever. “You don’t give me flowers for this anniversary. I left you.”

“You came back.”

“I left again.”

“And now you’re back again, and this time I’m confident you’re not going to leave, so I’m going to send you flowers whenever I damn well please.”

He’s so incredibly sweet sometimes, although he usually hides it well, but this time it almost overwhelms Donna. She left him twice. The first time, she hadn’t understood how much it would hurt him, but the second time… she knew Josh then. She knew how he valued loyalty and how he’d never leave people, and how much it would hurt him… They’ve discussed this and worked through it, and she knows he’s forgiven her and she’s forgiven him and she’s forgiven herself, although she’s not convinced that he’s forgiven himself. But for the first time, she realizes how much this means.

“You learned to read a calendar,” she teases, because she knows if she expresses the very serious thoughts running through her head, she might start crying.

“You’re still getting flowers in April,” he asserts.

“Fair enough. Now I should let you get back to tearing the Republicans apart.” She stares at the phone, wanting to let three words roll off her tongue. I love you. It shouldn’t be that hard, because she knows how deeply it’s true. But she can’t quite say it, not now.

“Talk to you later,” he replies, hanging up the phone.

The second bouquet shows up on her desk on the fourteenth, along with a box of exquisite chocolates and a letter promising more to come. He’s ridiculous sometimes, with his grand romantic gestures, but she can’t help but grin. It’s hard to get work done when she’s anticipating what waits for her later that night, but she certainly isn’t disappointed with the dinner, the drinks, the necklace he gives her, and the night they spend together.

The third bouquet comes a week later, and it is even bigger, and even though her office is large, Donna isn’t sure she’ll find space for it anywhere, since the others are still prominently displayed and hanging onto life surprisingly well. There’s no note again, and she tries to think of an anniversary of anything that might explain its presence.

She picks up the phone, dials Josh’s extension, and doesn’t even hesitate to ask. “What are these ones for?”

“Do you like them?”

“Yes, of course I like them, but…”

“Good.”

“Josh.”

“You didn’t miss anything, Donna, I just wanted to send you flowers. You know, for being you.”

She’s suddenly grateful this conversation is over the phone rather than in person, because she can’t let him see just how much this sweet, uninhibited Josh is getting to her. “I’m running out of space in my office.”

“I’ll have to find you a bigger office, then.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that right?” She says it in the most loving way possible.

“I’m rather a fan of the romantic gesture.”

“I’ve noticed.”

There’s a pause, and she hears him clear his throat, and finally he says, “I want to get this right.”

He’s going to make her cry in her office, and she has a meeting in ten minutes, so she absolutely cannot do that. “You’re getting it right,” she whispers into the phone. “So, so very right. And you don’t need the flowers to prove it. But thank you for them anyway.”

“I have to go,” he replies. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

He hangs up before she can say the three words she wants to say in response, and she thinks that maybe that’s alright, because saying that needs to be something special. Because she’s also desperate to get this one right.

_march._

Halfway through March, he feels like the world might be collapsing and it might be his fault. 

He’s always had a healthy ego, but this is not an ego thing, not really. He sits in the Situation Room for hours at a time, forgetting what daylight looks like, and stares at maps of Kazakhstan until the roads which cross it are burned into his brain, and even when he closes his eyes in an attempt to catch a few precious hours of sleep, he sees jets and artillery and soldiers and civilians; despite the images, he feels like he knows nothing, and for that he is simultaneously frustrated and grateful.

He’s not a military man, never has been, and his expertise is not in foreign policy. That’s why there’s an NSA advisor and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and a Secretary of Defense and a Secretary of State (who, despite being a Republican, has not yet entirely sabotaged the administration) and Santos is a military man, so he understands. Josh doesn’t understand, not fully, and the idea of sending soldiers to face the elements and explosions and guns makes him queasy. And while everyone around him discusses military maneuvers, he can think of little but the human cost.

Leo was a military man; is that how he handled this? Josh had to run to the bathroom and throw up when he heard that the Kazakhstan mission had its first casualties; Leo never would have had to do that.

You’re not Leo McGarry, he tells himself, and how he wishes he could be in this instance. He’s not cut out for the job, he thinks; he was never meant to be chief of staff. He can feel the judgment of the military advisors every time he tries to contribute, and he doesn’t blame them. But all he wants to do is make sure they don’t lose people, that he doesn’t have to have more deaths on his conscience when he has the opportunity to say something.

Kazakhstan has casualties now, and they’re trying to find out why, and he’s not sure that any reason is good enough.

He spends three long days in and out of the situation room, trying to deal with this incident as well as the other numerous things occurring around the country: a massive late blizzard in the Northeast, the collapse of an investment company, and another measles outbreak that should never have happened. He doesn’t go home, he doesn’t sleep, and he doesn’t see Donna at all. That alone could explain why he is so on edge.

Late on the third night, they receive confirmation about what happened. A helicopter carrying ten Marines was downed by accidental friendly fire. They had shot down their own men. It’s painful to hear, and yet it’s the best possible outcome because it doesn’t require further escalation. But all Josh can think about is the guilt that the men who ordered the attack might suffer.

They file out of the situation room, and President Santos pats Josh’s shoulder. “We did good,” he says. “Go home, and stay there tomorrow. You look like crap.”

“Thank you, sir,” Josh says quietly. He’s too tired to even offer a witty retort or any kind of protest.

He realizes he has absolutely no clue what time it is. Time has been a rather fluid thing these last few days, and he’s hardly had a chance to look out a window in the last few days. He checks his watch. Seven pm. A very normal time to go home, really. He never goes home at a normal time. Instead of heading back towards his office, he takes off towards the East Wing, hoping that Donna is still around.

Donna’s assistant is still there, which usually means Donna is still there, although he checks to make sure before opening her office door.

She looks up from her work and breaks into a smile. “Josh!”

“Hi.”

“You look awful,” she says, standing up and walking towards him. “You really need to shave.”

“Yeah. Haven’t been home in three days.”

“I noticed.” He’s expecting a lecture, but none comes.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t want this to be our life, but with Kazakhstan I haven’t been able to get away or even get any sleep, really, and I absolutely don’t want to make the same mistakes that Leo did, I value you too much for that, and I’ve missed you but I…”

She cuts him off by taking his face in her hands and kissing him, and he feels like he could melt at her touch. She steps back and looks him in the eye. “I know,” she says, and that’s all she needs to say. If anybody understands the chaos of his job, of his life, it’s her, and while he doesn’t want to take advantage of that, he’s grateful that she gets it better than anyone else ever could.

“Ready to go home?” he asks, taking her hand in his. He’s so glad she’s moved in with him; he hardly gets to see her as it is, but at least she sleeps in his bed and he wakes up by her side. He can’t wait to wake up by her side tomorrow.

“Let’s go.”

They leave the White House hand in hand, tired and worn, but not defeated.

_april._

It’s a warm April day, although supposedly they’re due for a blizzard soon because the Midwest has never made any sense, and she’s standing in the parking lot of her high school in Madison.

This is not how she’d expected to come back here; she’d anticipated dragging herself reluctantly to some class reunion, seeing all the boys she’d slept with in high school make nothing of their lives. Hell, she figured she’d be much the same, a waitress or secretary or housewife, a college dropout, a disappointment to all the teachers who had called her bright and said they expected big things from her. She hadn’t expected big things from herself.

Which is why she never would have predicted, driving out from her high school parking lot for the last time sixteen years ago, that she’d be back here on a temporary stage, in front of a massive crowd of teachers and school district officials and whoever else could manage to get in, and about to introduce the President of the United States.

It isn’t really her job, or her issue, but Josh had asked her if she’d want to travel with the President to Madison where he’d be giving a speech kicking off their push for education reform. The Madison school district is, apparently, piloting some of the programs that President Santos wants included in the education package, and he’s meeting with teacher’s union leaders and district officials and parents in the district. It’s all very much for PR, but Donna knows as well as anyone that an administration lives and dies by PR. She’d agreed, thinking that if she went and saw her parents while she was at it, they’d get off her back for not flying there for Easter.

But then somehow Josh had gotten it into his head that she should be the one to introduce the President. “You’d be perfect,” he says, “native daughter, graduate of the very high school he’s giving the speech at… how could we possibly pass that up?”

She really doesn’t know, but the pressure is immense. She’s been on television more times than she can count since joining the campaign, but this… this is different. It’s a nationally televised speech, but worse, it’ll be in front of people she knows. She’s sure some of her old teachers are still around, and some of her classmates have probably become teachers and come back to their old district, and even worse, many of her classmates have probably become parents with their children now in the district. How strange will it be to stand up in front of them like this? How is she supposed to react if she catches the eye of someone she stood next to at graduation, when she assumed her life would probably go nowhere?

Her parents insist on coming too, and so she manages to wrangle tickets for them. She’s really not sure if they even voted for Santos, considering that her father is a registered Republican and her mother has never had a strong political opinion in her life, but perhaps they did just to try to make sure she’d still have a job. When she had first left for New Hampshire, she hadn’t said anything, and she didn’t tell them about her new job until they were in South Carolina and Bartlet came second and was suddenly an actual contender. They weren’t thrilled, but she figured they had gotten over it by the time they had a daughter who worked in the White House. And now their daughter is up on the stage, waiting for the cue to step up to the mic and introduce the President of the United States. How could they not be proud now?

She turns to the side of the stage where she sees Josh running up the stairs, grinning. He takes off his sunglasses and comes up to put a hand behind her back. They’re careful about public affection—the last thing the administration needs is a staffer romance scandal, even if what they’re doing is perfectly ethical—but it’s not like the allegedly platonic relationship the eight years prior had ever stopped him from touching her in places that were just on the edge of appropriate. And she’s never complained. In fact, she kind of wants to shout it to the world, shout it to her teachers and classmates who she’s sure fill the parking lot, that she’s in love with the White House Chief of Staff, and she’s the First Lady’s Chief of Staff, and somehow, somehow, she succeeded in her life. She’s done something with her life, and she isn’t even close to stopping.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers in her ear.

“I’m trying to remember, in my senior yearbook, who was voted most likely to succeed.”

“Was it you?”

Donna shakes her head. “No, I was nothing special back then.”

“You’re something special now.” It’s with all the admiration and love in the world that he says it, and she can’t help but grin at him.

“I’ve spent so long doubting it, but I’m about to introduce the President of the United States, so yeah, I kind of am.” And for the first time, she believes it. She’s here because she was brave, and because she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and because she learned all she could and worked her way toward being here. The parking lot of her high school is full, and she’s about to blow them all away with how far she’s come.

He takes her hand and squeezes it. “He’s ready. Get on up there. You’re going to be great!”

Donna heads toward the microphone, taking one last look back at him. His proud nod inspires her. She takes a deep breath, imagining her eighteen-year-old self standing out there in the crowd. “Good afternoon everyone! My name is Donna Moss, and I’m the Chief of Staff to the First Lady of the United States. I’m also a native of Madison, and I graduated from this very school behind me.”

She doesn’t recognize any faces in the crowd; they’re all too small and probably too changed for her to identify. But her parents somehow made it front and center, and by their pleased nods, she can tell they’re proud too.

She stands in the parking lot of her high school in Madison, and she introduces the President, and she knows she’s made something of herself.

_may._

The Memorial Day service at Arlington is well-done, and the President’s speech is moving. Josh suspects that Sam couldn’t resist adding his own flourishes despite his completely unrelated job. He stands just off to the side of the stage, looking out over the sea of veterans who have the privilege of attending.

Donna is here somewhere, since the First Lady is sitting up on the stage along with several prominent generals and important people from the Pentagon. They had come separately, however, she and the First Lady in a motorcade, he and the President on Marine One. He hasn’t seen her yet, and he wonders if she’s gotten detained by a member of the press who is, yet again, asking what designer the First Lady is wearing, as if that could possibly matter.

The President is supposed to go to three more services after this, but Josh wonders if he might beg off of the others. It’s not that he doesn’t want to pay his respects—in fact, the more time he’s spent in the situation room, the more heavy this day weighs upon him—but he frankly feels out of place here. He could do more good from his office than he could standing off to the side at three more events where he’ll hear the same speech. Besides, he has some other business at Arlington to take care of.

The band is getting ready to play as the President wraps up his speech, and Josh spots Donna on the other side of the stage. He needs her, and he has a suspicion she might need him even more. He jogs around the back of the stage, bypassing the Secret Service agents without a problem, and puts his arms around her before she can turn around to notice him.

She doesn’t jump, but she does startle slightly until she realizes who it is. “You should be getting to Marine One.” She leans her head back into his shoulder, indicating that while she is saying he should leave, she absolutely doesn’t want him to leave. “You have another service to get to.”

“I’m not going to go,” he says. “The President doesn’t need me for this, and someone needs to run the West Wing. Besides, I need…” he hesitates before continuing. “I need to see Leo.” It’s been six months, but thinking about Leo still makes his chest a little tight. He wishes, more than anything, that he could _see_ Leo, that he could ask any of the million question that he still has, that he could hear Leo’s voice one more time encouraging him in the way only Leo could. He’s done well as Chief of Staff so far, he won’t deny himself that, but he wonders how much better he might have been if Leo had been there to guide him.

She loosens herself from her grip and turns toward him. “Can I come with you?”

He wonders if it’s for her sake or his—probably his, since she and Leo weren’t necessarily close—and nods his assent. “I’ll let my agent know. Does the First Lady need you?”

“She’s got one more event this evening, but that isn’t until seven so I think she can spare me for a bit,” Donna says, and he’s so incredibly grateful for her. She knows, she must know, how much he needs her by his side to cope with these things.

It’s a bit of a walk over to the spot where Leo is buried, but Josh knows the way well enough. He’s only made it out here a few times, but every detail of this spot is painfully engrained in his mind, to the point where he worried that his memories of Leo are going to be fade and be entirely replaced by the image of a stone, no different than the other stones packed around it, sitting in the grass.

As he stops in front of the stone, he realizes that he doesn’t have words. Sometimes he does; he’s monologued in this spot to the point where he’s certain his agent thinks that he’s crazy (although his agent already knows that, considering his Secret Service file enumerates the signs and symptoms of his PTSD), but today, he doesn’t have the words. And anyway, he doesn’t say them in front of Donna. She knows everything about him already, but they’re still not hers to hear.

So he stands there, and this is the first time he’s been able to stand here without feeling like he’s about to keel over and throw up, so maybe things are getting better. Maybe he’s starting to cope. Maybe he’s going to someday not feel like he killed Leo, his mentor, his father figure, the man who saved his job when he absolutely should not have and possibly his life. 

He’s not quite there yet, and considering he hasn’t forgiven himself for Joanie, he’s not sure he’ll ever be. But he stands tall, and he feels Donna’s hand rubbing his back, and he might not forgive himself but he forgives Leo for leaving him. He wishes, desperately wishes, that things were different, but the anger that has burned inside him since election day has tapered down to an ember. 

So he turns to Donna and nods, not needing to say any words.

She looks deeply into his eyes, and she can tell that something is bothering her, too. “I need to see a few people, too,” she says.

“Who?” he asks, mentally running through what he knows of Donna’s family. Did she have uncles or a grandfather or someone like that who might be buried here.

“Admiral Fitzwallace, for one.” Her voice doesn’t shake, but her hands do.

It hits him, in a way it should have hit him long ago, that Donna is in the same kind of pain. That Donna has watched people die right next to her, that she’s wondering if she shouldn’t have died instead. That Donna has had the same need to live her life in a way that makes surviving worthwhile, or else she’ll fall into a hole without a way out.

He should have recognized it as soon as she got back from Gaza, should have known that she might feel guilty about her survival. He’d been so overwhelmed with his own guilt for sending her there in the first place at the time that he couldn’t see past it, couldn’t bear to recognize her pain, because if he saw her pain he’d have one more thing to feel guilty about. It was stupid of him, and unhealthy, and he regrets that he wasn’t there for her after Gaza the way she was for him after Rosslyn, and he wishes he could take it all back but none of that will help her now. They haven’t talked about it much—they don’t need to talk about the most painful parts of their lives, considering they were both there—but maybe she needs to talk. He wants to be there for her if she needs to talk.

All this rushes through his head as he thinks of something to finally say. There’s no way he can make up for the days where he didn’t say anything, although he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to. “Okay,” he says. “And Donna, if you ever… if you ever need to talk about it, I…” he sighs heavily before continuing, unsure if this is helpful in anyway. “I understand. Better than almost anyone, probably.” He chuckles, wondering how he ended up with the one woman in the world who might understand him better than he understands himself. He wouldn’t wish his pain on even his worst enemies, but if Donna has to suffer in this way, he’ll make damn well sure to use every trick he’s ever come across to relieve her pain.

She doesn’t seem distraught, just reflective, and he wonders if she has come to terms with it or is just good at hiding. He’ll make sure later. But for now, it’s enough to see her slight smile and hear her quiet “Thank you,” as they venture further into the cemetery to make peace with their ghosts.

After all they’ve suffered, they have each other.

_june._

There is nothing like endless day.

The First Lady’s very first major international tour, to Scandinavia, comes right around the time of the summer solstice. They spend the night before the solstice in Stockholm, and it is midnight when they’ve gotten back from dinner with the King and Queen of Sweden. It’s midnight, but it barely looks like evening. Mrs. Santos is already asleep, still jet-lagged after three days in Europe, but Donna takes the opportunity to slip out of the hotel and wander around Gamla Stan, with its twisted streets and four hundred-year-old buildings, in the slowly fading light.

She doesn’t get to do this much; she travels plenty, but there’s never any time for sightseeing or wandering, and that’s what she likes best when she travels. It’s also freeing to not have an agent tailing her. Her working hours are always spent around the First Lady’s detail, and she’s otherwise with Josh or at his apartment, so if she’s not working, she’s always in the sights of his detail. She doesn’t complain about it ever—she knows from experience just how much risk Josh’s job can put him at—but for once, she can wander outside without feeling like she’s being watched. 

She finds herself at an open plaza, at the edge of the water, and takes a seat on a bench to watch the sun reluctantly begin to dip below the horizon. Tomorrow, they’re flying up north to a town with a name she is sure she can’t pronounce, to experience the midnight sun and Midsommar celebrations and shore up the Swedish-American relationship—something about wanting to hold onto the Midwest. Donna isn’t Scandinavian in any way, but it felt like half of her classmates were, and she’s found that she looks the part, based on how many Swedes have come up to her speaking Swedish rather than English. She’s enjoying herself, though. It’s a low-pressure trip, perfect for the first, and she couldn’t think of a better place to spend these early summer days.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she picks it up, somewhat confused. She didn’t even realize she had cell service out here. She squints to look at the number, and it’s very familiar. The White House is calling her. She picks up, wondering how much this is going to be on her phone bill. Or, she supposes, the taxpayer’s phone bill, since it’s a work phone.

“Donna Moss,” she says.

“Donnatella, miss me yet?” There’s no question who’s calling her. “Or have the Swedish men caught your eye?”

“You have so little faith in my loyalty.”

“I have immense faith in your loyalty. I don’t trust European men, however,” he teases. Her mind flashes briefly to Colin, but she puts that through away. That is far in the past, in a time she’d rather forget.

“You know it’s midnight here, right?”  
“You’re clearly not in bed.”

She laughs and takes in the scene before her. “No, no. Just doing a little exploring. It’s still light as day out here. This midnight sun is really something.” Suddenly, she wishes desperately that he was here with her. He’d enjoy it, she thinks, the bland food and beautiful scenery and copious amounts of coffee. She’s only been away three days, and she misses him. What does that say about her?

“I’ve only been there in the winter, when it’s only light about four hours of the day,” he says. Of course he’s been here. He’s been all over the world, really. “But I suppose that’s the tradeoff, isn’t it?”

She wants to travel with him, she realizes. Not just on a campaign bus or official Presidential visits, but travel for fun. For themselves. She wants to see the world, and she wants to see it with him. And someday, when they have jobs where taking a week or two off isn’t unheard of… She stops herself short of planning out their entire future, because she knows from experience that she has no clue what’s coming. But she knows that far into the future she wants to be with him still.

“Donna?” She hears his voice come through the phone. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Still here.”

“Learn any Swedish yet?”

Before she can stop herself, she says the first phrase that comes to mind. “Jag älskar dig.” Her eyes widen when she realizes what she’s said. She hasn’t been able to say those three words to him in English, and yet they’ve just slipped out in Swedish. On a phone call which is probably being bugged by the NSA, for all she knows. She wanted to say it to him in a way that meant something.

If it’s not in English, it doesn’t count, right?

“What does that mean?”

She gulps. She can’t say the words right now. She knows them to be true, but this is not the moment. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Donna!” he whines.

“I’m not sure, actually. I’ve probably pronounced it wrong, so it might not actually mean anything,” she scrambles.

It means something. It absolutely means something, but she can’t say that. Not yet.

“Anyway, we’ve got an early flight tomorrow, so I probably should be heading back,” she says. “I’ll be home in three days.”

“I’m counting the hours,” he replies.

“Me too.”

And when she closes the phone and looks back out towards the slowly setting sun, she whispers “Jag älskar dig” again and hopes he knows how true it is.

_july._

The Fourth of July celebrations are important to the White House, but most of Congress has escaped the heat and humidity of DC for their home districts. Josh considers this to be one of the few good ideas Congress has. He does not want to be in DC for the Fourth of July.

It’s not that he doesn’t love his country—he's given literal blood, sweat, and tears in many hard-fought attempts to improve it—but the idea of staying for the celebration concerns him.

Neither he nor Donna particularly enjoy fireworks anymore. He’s really more worried for Donna than himself; he’s always had more trouble with sirens, but Donna startles easily at loud noises and bright flashes, and he doesn’t want to put her through that. She never mentions anything, but then again she never does. He watches her though, with concern and love, and he notices these things. Maybe she’s not even aware of it—he has a million neuroses that he isn’t consciously aware of—but he makes a point to notice these things and be sensitive to them. He’s spent enough of his relationship with her being insensitive and thoughtless, and he doesn’t plan to continue that way.

He’s really not sure he can manage to get away, and he feels odd about even asking. It’s been less than a year since he took a week-long vacation, and while that had been more of an emergency and not even his idea, he feels like asking for more time off so soon would be too much. When he floats this worry by Sam, however, he gets an incredulous look back. “Josh, you have vacation time, which you've ignored the existence of for a decade now. You’re going to be able to do your job much better if you’re not constantly running yourself into the ground, and the President knows that. Hell, I’ll go tell him to force you to take a vacation if you’re not going to ask.”

So he reluctantly asks, shuffling his feet and wishing the ground would swallow him whole, and President Santos looks delighted that he brought it up; Josh wonders if Sam might have warned him that this request was coming. The President has a busy schedule for Independence Day, but it’s all ceremonial rather than policy-related, and Sam will be there to run things anyway. He’s practically being forced out of the building, and while he takes his phone with him since he can’t entirely go off the grid, he tries to get himself into a vacation mindset.

Thankfully, he can bring along the one thing that distracts him from work.

They take a flight to Boston and are driven up to a town on the coast of Maine that Josh knows from childhood vacations. Donna had requested somewhere more rural, a chance to get away from the stifling bustle of DC, but this is as secluded as they can get while maintaining a strong enough cell signal in case of national emergency. Josh isn’t planning on working, but he knows better than anyone that in his job, best laid plans often go awry.

They stay in a little cabin in a wooded area just steps from the beach, and the agents give them a wide berth so that they’re hardly noticeable, and for the first time since Hawaii, it’s just Josh and Donna, not Josh and Donna and the weight of the good of the United States of America on their shoulders.

He’s forgotten how to sleep again. He’s not sure he ever learned how, really, because he wakes at five and thinks of the bills that should be prioritized when Congress gets back from recess, and scribbles down notes on some of the memos he dragged along, and watches Donna as her chest rises and falls and thinks about just how lucky he is to have her in his life. Even with the early mornings, he sleeps more than usual, and he thinks perhaps this is just how he’s meant to be, although he’s sure his doctor, who has been telling him to get more sleep and less stress for years now, would disagree.

There are lounge chairs on the beach, and Josh manages to close his eyes and enjoy the cool summer breeze and the peaceful sound of the waves, and when he opens them again, the sun is setting behind him and Donna is there with a book on her lap, but she’s looking at him instead of reading it.

He doesn’t sleep enough, but they spend plenty of time in bed, taking things slowly and gently in a way they never have time for in DC. He studies every inch of her body, breathless with delight in the fact that after almost a decade, he has the privilege of her perfection. It’s different than Hawaii, where every afternoon, every night had felt like making up for lost time. Here, they feel like they have all the time in the world, and it’s less frantic but just as enjoyable.

She falls asleep quickly afterward, but he doesn’t, so he lays there and watches her and traces the scars on her leg when she kicks the covers off and wonders how, despite everything, he’s been so lucky.

They spend Independence Day much like the two days before it, either inside or on the beach. Josh, with the help and supervision of one of the agents, manages to start a fire in the pit besides the cabin, and roasts hot dogs until they’re practically charcoal. They sit by it while the sun sets, until they smell like smoke and until they’ve eaten one too many smores and laughed until their stomachs hurt. It’s a good night, and they’re far enough away from civilization that they don’t hear any fireworks. They only see faint sparkles in the sky which might as well be stars.

Josh realizes, as he helps to put the fire out, that he’s been here three days and he hasn’t taken a single phone call. And that, despite his reluctance, he really likes vacations.

All good things must come to an end, and the next day they’re headed back towards Boston for their evening flight, although they make a stop on the way down at a familiar farm in Manchester, New Hampshire. Jed Bartlet seems to have aged five years backwards since the stress of the presidency was lifted from his shoulders, and he insists that Josh call him by his first name. Josh steadfastly refuses.

They talk about politics, of course—there’s no way that topic was going to be avoided—but it’s not heavy in the way even social visits with the Bartlets used to be when he was in office. Jed and Donna swap trivia, and he’s delighted that she at least will stop calling him ‘sir’. Abbey, unable to stop being a doctor, insists on giving Josh a checkup since she’s certain he hasn’t had the time to go to the doctor as regularly as he should (and she is, of course, right). She’s pleased to see that his blood pressure, while still higher than it should be, is the lowest it’s been in years. “I think vacation agrees with you, Joshua,” she says, patting his back.

Josh is inclined to agree.

They leave in the late afternoon to head towards Boston, with a promise to come back as soon as there’s another break in their busy schedules. It’s only a few minutes after they’ve settled into their seats on the plane that Donna’s head falls onto his shoulder and she’s fast asleep. They’ve sat like this many times, on campaign buses, planes, places all over the US, but always in an allegedly platonic place. It’s never felt more right than it does now.

He loves her. He’s never felt like this before, and yet he’s felt like this for the last decade and was somehow unaware, and he never wants to lose this. He’s never been more afraid of anything in his life than he is of losing her. He’s not sure he can say that, though, not yet. If he pushes things too far too fast he might lose her for good, and the fear of that eats him up inside. He’s always been afraid of commitment, but it isn’t that this time. He wants her by his side for the rest of his life, and he’s afraid he’ll do something stupid to prevent that, or she’ll fall under the curse that seems to hit everyone he loves eventually and he’ll lose her just the same.

He doesn’t know much, but he knows that he loves her more than he’s ever loved anyone.

He hopes that, for once, that’s enough.

_august._

The month of August is not a good month.

It starts with one phrase. "Seven years.” A news retrospective. Dozens of phone calls, although she knows he’ll pick up only if it’s CJ or Toby or President Bartlet. A lockdown in the White House for a few hours only makes things worse. It’s a bad day. Donna tells Margaret to keep an eye on Josh, and Margaret knows exactly why.

She watches realization dawn throughout the day on the faces of the staffers. They wouldn’t know why, not before. They hadn’t put two and two together, hadn’t realized why Josh Lyman’s name had been vaguely familiar to them before. But Donna’s door is open to the bullpen of the East Wing, and the cable TV is just a little too loud, and she hears the newscaster say his name and there’s footage of that night and sirens wailing in the background and she hopes against hope that he isn’t watching, that no one else is watching.

When she comes over to the West Wing at five, hoping to drag him out early, she hears yelling coming from his office. Josh yelling is not uncommon, but there’s a harshness to his tone, a pain in his voice, and she wonders what it was that set him off, other than the date on the calendar that will forever be circled in blood in her mind.

Margaret doesn’t say anything, but Donna can tell just from her pained expression that it’s not been a good day. She marches into Josh’s office, and Margaret doesn’t stop her, and she tells him to come home with her. He protests, and she threatens to march straight into the Oval Office and get the President in on it, and so he acquiesces. He holds himself stiffly as they walk out, not saying a word. He’s so rarely quiet.

He makes it through the anniversary, and that night, she traces his scar and tells him how grateful she is that he made it out alive, and his eyes grow glassy and wet, and he doesn’t say anything.

Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow, she thinks, as she wakes for the third time that night to his strangled cries.

It’s not over though.

Maybe what really sets it off is the first day of school. A teenager in Texas shot up his homeroom on the first morning back. Eleven dead, twenty-three injured. Donna goes to find him as soon as she hears the news, but he’s already in the Oval, briefing the president, and she’s not going to be able to stop him from falling apart. Before she gets a chance to find him, she hears that the President is already on Air Force One, along with his staff. Josh is on his way to Dallas, and he doesn’t pick up his phone. He’ll be back late tonight, Margaret says.

Donna wanders past her into his office and looks it over. It’s always a mess, but this is beyond his usual organized chaos. On top of scattered papers, he’s left his cell phone, blinking with her six missed calls. Josh is forgetful, but he’s practically always attached to his phone, so Donna wonders just how scattered he is right now. She opens his top desk drawer, mentally counting the pill bottles that she makes him keep here for the nights he doesn’t make it home. He didn’t bring his anxiety meds with him, she notes. She closes her eyes, grateful that Air Force One and the motorcade have reinforced glass.

There’s nothing she can do except go back to her office and wait until he gets back. She finds herself comforting the First Lady, who takes these sorts of things hard. “I should have gone with him to Dallas,” she says, and Donna wishes she had. But they prepare a statement, as if a statement can do anything, and Donna keeps her eyes on the TV all evening, until there’s footage of the President at the school, meeting with the families, and soon to give a speech. She watches it intently, looking for a glimpse of Josh behind him.

When she catches one, it’s exactly as bad as she expects. He’s pale and twitchy and his eyes are red and he keeps flinching and she’s reminded of that Christmas where she didn’t notice the signs until it was almost too late, but this time she sees all the signs and he’s a thousand miles away and she can’t get to him to help. The President starts to speak outside the school, she catches Josh standing behind him in one of the wider shots, his back pressed up against the wall and his eyes closed tight.

He shouldn’t have come to this. How could the President have let him come to this? She wonders if Josh ever told him; he knows about Rosslyn, of course, but maybe not about Christmas, or about the diagnosis. It isn’t something Josh talks about ever.

She notes that Sam isn’t in any of the footage, which makes things worse; Sam is the only other one who was there, who knows how to keep Josh from going off the deep end. She treads a familiar path to the office she spent six years working outside of, and knocks on the door.

Sam is pale, too, and Donna remembers that he was there that night, that he heard the shots, that he saw the blood, and that he’s probably remembering things he doesn’t want to remember. “He shouldn’t have gone,” she says, and Sam doesn’t question what she’s talking about.

“It wasn’t my choice to make. The President asked Josh to come, and he doesn’t say no.”

“Does the president know?”

“About Rosslyn, yes, but not the other thing.”

“I figured.”

“They’re going to the hospital next. Meeting with some of the victims there.”

Donna’s chest tightens and she swallows. “He can’t go there,” she says softly. “He doesn’t do well in hospitals anyway, and he was on the edge before this happened, and he hasn’t had his medication today, and…”

Sam looks like he wants to comfort her, but he doesn’t have the words, because he knows she’s right to be afraid. “The Secret Service knows, right?”

Josh hadn’t wanted them to, afraid that it would cost him his security clearance or even his job, but Leo had insisted that it was for his own safety.

At her nod, Sam continues, “Then they’ll keep an eye on him. They know what to do.” He puts a hand on her back and brings her further into his office. “Come sit in here. I think it might be better for both of us.”

She spends the next several hours, largely silent and unmoving, in Sam’s office, watching intently as the news continues to cover the President’s trip. Each time she spots Josh, she forgets to breathe for a second. She wonders what’s going though his head, if he’s managed to ignore the sirens, or if they’re about to take him over, if he’d do anything to make them stop.

He has coping mechanisms now, unlike that Christmas, and he understands what’s going on with him, so she knows it won’t get that far, but it still eats at her that she can’t do anything, that she can’t be the one to make the sirens go away.

She doesn’t do any of the work that she really should be getting done, but she knows that the First Lady is going to be hugging her children rather than working, so she sits in Sam's office, watching the TV for any sight of Josh, and thinks of the eleven families who received the worst news, and the twenty-three families in hospital waiting rooms, and she knows their pain far better than she should. Once in a while, her mind drifts to sand and sun and fiery explosions, and her leg aches fiercely, but she focuses on Josh, because it seems easier to deal with his pain than her own.

It’s several hours after she normally would have gone home when her assistant, who definitely should have gone home by now, enters Sam’s office breathlessly. “It's the President,” she says, wide-eyed. “He’s on the phone for you.”

Surely there was an easier way to transfer a phone call, but Donna finds herself racing back across the building, the exertion spilling out of the nervous energy that has built up inside her. She picks up the phone and tries to calm her breathing, hoping the President won’t notice.

“Mr. President?”

“Donna, hi. How are you?”

She doesn’t want to talk about her. She needs to know why he’s calling, because she knows it’s about Josh. But this is the President of the United States, and no matter how much time she’s spent with him, there are still rules to follow. “I’m alright, sir. And yourself?”

“Devastated, of course. I don’t think presiding over tragedy will ever get any easier. Listen, Josh has been a little off all day.”

A little?

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“We were visiting some of the victims at the hospital, and halfway through he ran out very suddenly. I didn’t see him again until we were back on Air Force One, and he won’t say what happened. He’s still pretty shaky though. I was wondering if you… if you knew…”

Donna closes her eyes. “He’s a shooting victim, sir,” she reminds him simply, hoping that’ll be answer enough.

“Yes, yes, of course…” President Santos trails off. “I was just wondering if there was anything else going on. I’ve never seen him this bad, not even after Leo…”

There is definitely something else going on, but that isn’t hers to tell. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself, sir. But I’ll be there at Andrews to take him back home. And if I may… if you can spare him tomorrow, I think he’d benefit from the day off.”

“I think I’ll manage. Thanks, Donna,” he says, and the line goes dead. She wishes she had asked to talk to Josh herself, and she considers trying to place a call, but if he needed to talk to her, he would call her. He seems to stubbornly want to be left alone.

It’s midnight when Air Force One Arrives, and she’s in the back of the town car, with the Secret Service agent driving. His detail is often an annoyance, although one she’ll gladly endure if it ensures his safety, but tonight she’s especially grateful.

She steps out of the back of the car into the sticky August night and watches as he walks down the stairs from the plane, his backpack dangling from his shoulder, looking wide-eyed and afraid and trembling as if it is cold; it is, in fact, a humid eighty degrees, even at this late hour.

She meets his eyes and steadily holds his gaze until he is close enough that she can wrap her arms around him and hold him tight. He seems to melt in her embrace, letting go of any mask he was trying to put on before. He probably hasn’t yet cried, she thinks, but he’s certainly not far from it.

“You’re taking the day off tomorrow,” she whispers, as she takes his hand and pulls him into the car. He doesn’t protest, to her surprise. “And I set up an appointment with your therapist for tomorrow.” She won’t mention that he hasn’t seen a therapist since before the inauguration; she’ll chide him for that later, but he doesn’t need to hear it today. Instead, she pulls out a medicine bottle and presses a small pill into his hand and hands him a bottle of water.

He takes it without question, and he’s still so quiet. He’s been quiet all month, she realizes, and she didn’t see the signs. Or she did see the signs and didn’t do anything about them, which might be worse.

“I thought I was going to be okay,” he says softly, without prompting. “It was bad, being at the school, but I was okay, but at the hospital… I saw all these children—-children, Donna, children! All these children who had bullets put in them, and suddenly they all looked like Joanie and they all looked like you and…” He buries his head in her shoulder. “I couldn't handle it.”

Donna wraps her arm around him and strokes his back softly. “It’s okay. I understand.” And she does, better than almost anyone else.

“It’s been seven fucking years.” His voice is strained. “I should be better than this.”

Nothing that she can say will make it better, but she’ll do what she can. She’ll make sure he takes his medication and sees his therapist and love him in all the ways she knows how. And she’ll remind him that she understands; she’s had an easier time of working through her trauma, for whatever reason, and she hasn’t had to suffer the effects of PTSD in the same way, but she understands his pain to an extent.

“Tomorrow is going to be better,” Donna says firmly. “And next month will be better, and so will next year. But for right now, let's just focus on tomorrow.”

She’s not sure if he believes her. She’s not even sure if she believes herself. But as the car speeds back towards Georgetown, she squeezes his hand and hopes that for now, it’s enough.

_september._

It’s a lazy Sunday morning in September when the words slip out.

He’ll have to go into the office later—even Sundays aren’t really days off—but he sleeps until seven, a massive aberration for him, and gets up to sit on the couch and do some reading. Donna sleeps another half hour, although her body is similarly tuned to early mornings, before she gets up and joins him.

She looks adorable this morning, wearing nothing but his old Harvard sweatshirt that is faded almost beyond recognition. It’s too big for her (it was always too big for him too, since he’d gotten it for free at some event) and it falls to mid-thigh, and while he’s seen her in red dresses and lingerie and absolutely nothing at all, at the moment he can’t imagine her wearing anything more attractive.

“Breakfast?” she asks as she wanders into the living room.

“I know we usually eat somewhere before heading in on Sundays, but I’d really rather stay here until we need to leave,” he says. He doesn’t want her to change, not yet, and he wants this morning to be lazy and quiet and just them.

Her face breaks into a smile, and he’s glad he’s said the right thing. “Want some pancakes?”

“That sounds heavenly. Bacon, too?”

“I think we might still have some. That reminds me, we need to get groceries today on our way back.”

It’s been strange to actually have a stocked fridge and cupboards. Living with Donna has made him realize that he had no idea how to grocery shop effectively before, and he’s picked up a few things since she’s moved in. Neither of them are great cooks, but they’re learning together, and while they’re busy people and eat at the mess or get takeout more often than not, a few times a week they manage a home-cooked meal, and Josh won’t admit it to her but he lives for those nights. “Need any help?” he asks, as she walks towards the kitchen.

“I’ll be fine- it looks like you have some stuff to catch up on, and the sooner you do that, the sooner you can be home tonight.”

“I like your thinking,” he responds, watching as her feet, clad in ridiculous looking fluffy socks, slide towards the kitchen.

He reads through a few of the memos, but his mind keeps drifting to her and that damn sweatshirt, and her eyes adorably bleary from sleep, and her messy blonde hair, and this version of Donna that he adores beyond reason. He loves every version of Donna, but this one is special. This one is the one only he gets to see.

Josh finally gives up on work when he hears her humming in the kitchen. He’s not sure what it is she’s humming, and she’s frankly a little off, but he’s charmed by it and he can’t get the image of her out of his head and he suddenly can’t go another moment without seeing her. God, he’s an addict. He can’t resist her.

So he pads toward the kitchen, taking in the smell of bacon on the edge of being burnt. She’ll take half of it off the heat, but she’ll burn half of it just for him. She's got pancakes sizzling in the pan and she’s standing at the sink washing the dishes, still humming indistinctly, and it’s pure joy. He sets the table and wonders why he let himself miss out on this for a decade. For a moment, he has no thoughts of his job, or politics, or anything else. All he can think of is her.

They start to chat about everything and nothing, and it’s natural and perfect and all the while he can’t stop thinking about her. Which is probably why, when she comes over to slide some burnt bacon onto his plate, the words that have been rattling around in his head for the morning, or nine months, or really, the last decade slip out.

“God, Donna, I love you.”

She stops short and stares at him, and he immediately realizes what he’s said. Certainly he’s said it to her before, hasn’t he? Surely this isn’t the first time she’s heard it from him? But judging from the look on her face, this is a shock, and maybe he’s done it all wrong.

“What the fuck, Josh?”

If he had considered her reaction before saying it, that would have been the absolute last thing he wanted to hear, and so his heart sinks and he gulps. Donna doesn’t swear much—he makes fun of her Midwestern purity—so this is alarmingly out of character and he’s convinced that he’s just done the stupid thing that will result in him losing her. “Donna, I’m…”

And then she laughs. He’s not sure what to make of it, and his eyes are still wide, still trained on her, still afraid that he’s ruined everything. “Josh, I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay that to you for months, and you’re just going to come out and say it over what? Some bacon?”

“I’m sorry, I can…”

“No, no, no, I’ve wanted to say it for so long, but I couldn’t find the right time, and I was scared of how you’d react, and…” She takes his face in her hands and interrupts herself by kissing him. “I love you, too.”

He shakes his head in amazement as she pulls back. “So you’re not mad?”  
“Josh, how could I ever be mad at that?”

“I don't know, it seemed like the sort of thing that should be said for the first time a little more romantically than this.”

“I thought so too, which was why I was so stressed about it, but it's out there now and it’s perfect and I don’t have to worry about it anymore.” She grabs the plate of pancakes that are by the stove and places it on the table. “I almost said it when I was in Sweden, you know. I mean, I did say it, but not…”

“I know,” he said.

“Really?”

“I had Margaret look up the translation of what you said to me.” She had demonstrated some exasperation at the task, but she had done it, and Josh hadn’t been able to hide his grin then. Just like he can’t hide it now.

“So Margaret got to say it to you first.”

He rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t count, Donna.”

“Nevertheless, I think I have to say it again.” She comes behind him and wraps her arms around him, and he sinks into her embrace.

“Please do.”

“I love you,” she whispers into his ear. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He turns around to kiss her again.

The pancakes and bacon have long gone cold by the time they get around to eating.

_october._

It’s eight on a Friday evening when her assistant pokes her head into the room. “Josh just called. He wanted to remind you to hurry over to his office to watch the vote.”

“It’s not even my bill,” she says under her breath, with a shake of her head, but she knows why it’s so important to him. The omnibus education bill has been a long, long work in progress, but it got through the House with bipartisan support and tonight is the night it should, barring any unforeseen circumstances, pass the Senate. Josh has been working non-stop the last few weeks to get enough senators on board to pass it without the threat of a filibuster, even going up to the Hill himself to strong-arm a couple of reluctant senators. This is what he’s good at, and this victory is particularly hard-fought, and he wants her to be there for that.

She’s done a little work on it, anyway, arranging ways for the First Lady to boost popular support of the bill. She’s been able to spin Mrs. Santos’ image as a devoted mother of two school-age children into the support of mothers across the country. She called for a phone campaign towards Senators on the fence in one media appearance, leading to a flurry of phone calls to Senate offices and, by her estimation, at least three more votes for the package. So she’s proud of Josh, and she’s proud of herself, and she’s excited to see the fruits of their efforts pay off.

Not that she’ll say that out loud yet, just in case. No need to tempt the wrath from high atop the thing.

Donna packs up some materials just in case she doesn’t come in tomorrow, although she’ll probably come in tomorrow. She can’t remember the last time she had a Saturday off. She really could take them off, but there’s always something she _could_ be doing, and if Josh comes in, she comes with him. They’re more casual on Saturdays—she’ll often work in his office instead of in the East Wing, and they’ll bounce ideas off of each other and frequently get off track, and she treasures those times—but it’s still a full day of work on a day that she really should have off.

When she reaches Josh’s office, she sees quite a bit of activity. Most of the staff is packed in tightly, and there’s beer and food and a generally celebratory atmosphere. She’s glad to see how loose and friendly everyone is; she knows that Josh has struggled with feeling somewhat socially isolated in his position as chief of staff, unable to have the same relationship with the staff he oversees as he did when he was deputy, but tonight everyone seems relaxed.

“Donna!” he says, grabbing a beer and handing it to her. “Donnatella, you’ve made it just in time!” He puts his arm around her; he’s got quite a swagger to him, and she thinks he’s about to start beating his chest of bowing or declaring total victory. Years ago, she found that unbearable, but she’s glad to see that part of him again. The past decade has subdued him significantly. He still can be arrogant and cocky, or at least he pretends to be, but sometimes she misses the unashamed bluster of the man who got President Bartlet elected.

“You’re drinking already?” she asks. “Isn’t that tempting fate?”

"It's not champagne, so I think we’re safe. It could just as easily be for drowning our sorrows,” he replies, taking another swig of his beer.

She pries off the cap and takes a drink. “How many have you had so far?”

“This is my first.”

One and he’s already kind of goofy. He really can’t hold his liquor. But then again, she’s not sure if it’s the drink or just him being himself in a way which he hasn’t been for a while. “You're just having one, right?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How the night goes,” he whispers in her ear, managing to make it suggestive. 

She rolls her eyes and grabs a handful of chips from a bag that’s sitting on the table, turning her attention to the TV. They’ve finally closed debate on the bill, and the vote is about to start.

“How many did we get?” she asks Sam, as they call for the first senator’s vote.

“All the Democrats are on board, and we got seventeen Republicans. And we’re hoping we might pick up a few more yea votes from those who know it’s a losing battle and want the credit with the people who support the bill," Sam explains.

“Why would anyone vote against it is my question,” Donna mutters, as the first nay vote is counted. 

“Education is the future, and that scares the entrenched powers,” Sam explains succinctly.

Donna laughs. It’s a Sam answer if she’s ever heard one, and suddenly she realizes how nice it is to have him back at the White House. “This is our ninth year in the White House- are we the entrenched powers?”

“Not with a Republican congress. Get us a trifecta at the midterms and then we can talk,” he replies. He pats her on the back and grins. “You did good, Donna, you and Mrs. Santos. Really got the message out there.”

Donna beams with pride. Josh tells her things like that all the time, but hearing it from Sam convinces her that maybe it wasn’t a fluke, that maybe she is really good at her job.

Thirty-five yeas and sixteen nays. Donna breaks away from her chat with Lou to grab another handful of chips. Lou isn’t the easiest person to work with, but she makes a good foil for Josh; he likes to work with people he can intelligently disagree with, since a good argument helps him to refine his points and positions. And it was Lou who brought them back together, even if that wasn’t her intention, so Donna will always be grateful to her for that.

She figures they’d have gotten it together anyway. Eventually. But their separation had been prolonged enough.

Forty-six yeas and twenty-seven nays. They’re so close, just a few votes away. She moves over to Josh’s desk. He’s leaning against it, sipping the last of his beer, watching the vote with a satisfied smile. “This is the big one,” he says softly, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “This is where we started, this is what we came here to do.”

He hasn’t slept for more than an hour or two in the last three days. He’s been pushing this tirelessly, not to mention trying to deal with all the other crises that emerge on a daily basis. His job is a tireless and thankless effort, but she knows it’s his dream. After everything though, he really deserves this win, and she’s thrilled to be here to celebrate it with him.

It’s Senator Porter of Delaware who casts the fiftieth yea vote, and the room erupts in cheers. Somebody pops a bottle of champagne, Sam and Otto hug everyone, and Josh pulls her close to him in a tight hug. “We did it, Donnatella,” he whispers. “Our children are going to go to better schools and learn better than we ever did, because we made it happen.”

Our children. She doesn’t know if he actually means anything by it, and they’re definitely not ready for that discussion, but she likes the sound of it.

_november._

He’s been thinking a lot about anniversaries lately.

He’s always been big on anniversaries—he’s sent flowers to Donna on every date that could possibly be considered an anniversary, after all—but this year, he’s thought about them more than ever. There are the good ones, of course. The ones he sends flowers for. But then there are the ones he doesn’t like to think about. The fire, his father’s death, Gaza, Rosslyn… He tries to avoid spending too much time thinking about them, but those days are and probably will always be hard for him. 

But no anniversary is going to be quite as overwhelmingly complicated for him as November 7th.

In the span of a single day, he got together with the woman he had loved for a decade, lost a father figure, and won a hard-fought election. It had been too much to process then, and it’s really too much to process now. He’s been with Donna a year, Leo has been gone for a year, and Matt Santos was elected to be President a year ago.

When he wakes up on November 7th, he has a lot on his mind, even beyond the usual litany of bills and issues and crises that he has to keep straight. He reaches out for Donna, remembering when he was too afraid to. He’s not too afraid anymore.

He doesn’t have time to visit Leo, and really, he knows Leo wouldn’t want him too anyway. He’d say that running the country is more important. Still, Josh’s chest constricts at the thought that Leo’s been gone for an entire year. It’s the same feeling he gets every time he sees Baker presiding over the Senate. It should have been Leo, it so nearly was Leo, and while Baker is doing a good job, Josh will never quite be able to see him doing his vice presidential duties without wishing it was Leo instead.

The mood at the White House is jubilant when he arrives; five of the six House special elections the night before had been won by Democrats, gaining them an extra two seats. And of course, the staff all has much fonder memories of the prior year, if they’re even thinking of that night.

He steels himself and tries not to let his thoughts linger on Leo. He looks at the note CJ left him every few minutes, and he hopes he’s living up to it. He hopes that he’s going to do enough with the opportunity he has.

Donna comes over to his office at lunch and eats with him. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but usually he asks, or she warns him. Today, however, she just knows that he wants her there. She really can read him without his having to say a word, and it’s just one of the many, many things he loves about her.

“He would be so proud of you, Josh,” she says at one point, and it doesn’t make him want to cry like he thought it might. Instead, it warms his heart, and he once again thinks about just how lucky he is, despite everything.

Even the most painful of anniversaries are a reminder of the second chances he’s been given. He’s alive against all odds, and so is she, and they’re together, and maybe, just maybe, he should take that as a sign.

He needs another date to mark on his calendar. Another day to send her flowers. Another day to fill with good memories. Another anniversary to enjoy rather than dread.

He calls up his mother that afternoon. “Hey, Ma… don’t freak out when I ask you this, but I need you to find Grandmother’s ring.”

Josh cries that night for Leo and the Vice President he wishes more than anything American could have had, but he falls asleep in Donna’s arms, and thinks that maybe this anniversary won’t be so hard as all the rest.

It’s another reminder of all he has to be grateful for.

_december._

The Congressional Christmas party is less exciting than it used to be; she’s been to several of them at this point, and no guest performer can thrill her quite as much as Yo-Yo Ma. But tonight it’s more important than ever for her to go; she needs to find a couple representatives willing to co-sponsor a bill related to one of the First Lady’s initiatives, and there’s no better time to chat up congressmen than when they’re tipsy on champagne.

She’s gotten two potential candidates interested when the flickering lights indicate the performance is about to begin. This year, it’s some string quartet from Juilliard; she’s sure it’ll be impeccable, but she finds herself not really caring.

Besides, she manages to spot Josh slip out across the room, and she’s more interested in following him.

Music doesn’t trigger him the way it used to, although she knows it’s taken him a lot of work to get to that point. He still doesn’t seek it out and Donna doesn’t press him on it; she loves Christmas music herself, but she can live without out it because she knows that makes things easier on him. He could certainly make it through the performance without a problem, especially if she was there to hold his hand, but she knows he’d rather not put himself through that if he doesn’t have to.

Everyone is heading toward the seats, but Donna decides to follow him. She assumes he’s headed to his office to wait out the performance, and she’ll be more than happy to keep him company.

She manages to catch up with him when he’s just outside the outer office to the Oval.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to chide me about missing the performance,” he says, when he turns around to see her fast approaching him.

Donna shakes her head. How could she ever be upset with him for taking care of himself? “Not at all. I just figured they might be up there a little while, and you might like some company.”

“I was going to get a little work done, actually…”

She’s close enough to catch his arm and turn him around entirely. “It’s Christmas, Josh. Don't be the kid who leaves a party early to do homework.”

“I wasn’t, it’s just…”

Donna lays her hands flat on his chest and looks him over. He looks tired, as he usually does, but she's finally managed to get him to wear a tuxedo that actually fits him, and she’s very pleased with her handiwork. “Your tie is coming apart.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours, because after all these years, you still can’t tie a bowtie.”

He chuckles and looks away. “I can, actually.”

She stops short, her hands on the ends of his now entirely unraveled tie. “You’re telling me that all these years, you didn’t need me to do this?”

“You’re better at it!” he says sheepishly. “And I just… I liked it when you did it. It was nice to be so close. And I like it even better now, now that you’re close enough for me to do this.” He brings his hands up to his neck to grasp hers and leans forward to kiss her.

Donna melts into it for a minute before remembering where she is. Their relationship is no secret in the White House, but there’s such a thing as being too publicly affectionate, and if they start now, she’s not sure she’ll be able to stop herself. “Josh, it’s one thing if we’re in your office or mine, but this is the hallway and…”

“Is it snowing?” he suddenly interrupts after she pulls away, looking out the window behind the secretary’s desk.

She turns her head to see large flakes falling just past the portico. “Looks like it.”

“It’s the first snow!” He’s almost childlike in her exclamation, and it charms her. For as many snowy winters as he’s lived through, he still seems awed by it.

“It snowed two weeks ago.”

“It didn’t stick, so it doesn’t count.” He grabs her hand and tugs her arm, pulling her towards the external door. “Come on!”

“Josh, I don’t have a coat!”

He pulls off the jacket of his tuxedo and places it around her shoulders. She’s sure that it looks ridiculous with her strapless gown, but the immediacy of the gesture is sweet, and suddenly she’s reminded of an inauguration night half a decade ago. How far they’ve come now. “Now you won’t have a coat,” she says, as he pushes the door open.

“Donnatella, I’m from New England. I can handle a little cold,” he says, his stupid, cocky grin plastered on his face. Sometimes the reasons why she loves this idiot elude her, but then he grabs her hand and pulls her along the portico and towards the Rose Garden into the softly falling snow, his broad smile lighting up his face and hiding the weariness she knows he often carries, and she thinks she might fall in love with him all over again.

They step out of the shelter of the portico into the center of the garden, and she doesn’t care that she’s getting his absurdly overpriced gown wet or that the snow that’s already on the ground is starting to soak into her shoes. He puts his arm behind her back and pulls her closer to him, and they gaze at the Rose Garden and the White House in front of them, and once again Donna wonders at how the events of her life brought her to this very moment. One stupid, impulsive decision to drive to New Hampshire, and now she’s standing in the Rose Garden with a man she’s loved for a decade. If that isn’t a beautiful twist of fate, she doesn’t know what is.

“You know what I’m thinking,” he says softly, his hand rubbing her back.

“Hmm?”

“That I could do this for the rest of my life.”

She laughs. “It’s cold, and wet, and people are going to think we’re insane when we make it back into the party,” she points out.

“Yeah,” he says. “But if you’re by my side, I could do anything for the rest of my life.”

She closes her eyes and leans her head on his shoulder. “Me too.”

“Then how about it?”

“Hmm?”

He drops his arm from her waist and she opens her eyes to look at him, already missing the sensation. He has suddenly paled, and there’s nervous energy emanating from every part of his body, and he bounces on the balls of his feet, but there’s a twinkle playing at the corner of his eyes. “It’s been a year, or it’s been a decade, depending on how you count it, but I think we’ve waited long enough.”

“Josh, what are you…” Her eyes grow wide as he presses a finger to her lips. Is this really… she doesn’t want to get her hopes up, in case it’s just one of his occasional gushing speeches without any concrete reason, but he’s stuck his hand in his pocket and he’s playing with something in there, and she’s beginning to wonder.

“Donna, we’ve been through a lot together. Actually, a lot might even be an understatement. And as much as I try to hide it, I'm often overwhelmed, or confused, or a complete disaster when it comes to emotions…” he rambles. The nervous energy is more intense than ever. “But I do know one thing. This last year has been one of the best of my life, and that’s because I have you by my side. And I’d like to make that, you know, permanent.”

“Josh, I…” she starts, but he cuts her off again.

“I don’t want to screw this up, or lose you again. I love you, Donna. I love you so much, and I want to be with you always, and… I should have had Sam write this for me so I’d sound a little less like an idiot doing this…” he laughs and grasps her hands in his and begins to kneel down, placing one knee in the wet snow.

Donna thinks that maybe she should be surprised, or crying, or something like that, but instead she just beams at him, wide-eyed. This is really happening. He’s going to do it.

“Donnatella Moss, will you marry me?”

She doesn’t have to think. “Yes!”

She leans down to kiss him before he can get up, but she slips on the snowy ground and tumbles on top of him so they both fall into an inch of snow. She is horrified for a second, but he starts laughing, and then she starts laughing, and they’re lying down in the snow in the Rose Garden together, and she reaches out to complete the kiss and hopes that it’ll never end, and her dress is definitely ruined but she can’t bring herself to care, and she can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying or both, and she’s absolutely soaked in the freezing snow but she’s never felt so warm.

When they finally break apart and lay back on the ground, neither of them make a move to get up. He turns his head toward her, and for a second she imagines that his eyes have turned into cartoon hearts, because there’s no other way to describe the look in them. “You’re really going to marry me.”

“I’m really going to marry you,” she confirms, and the words are followed by a joyful laugh.

“The falling over was not in my plan for this proposal,” he notes.

“No, that was kind of my fault,” Donna agrees, still feeling like she’s about to float away.

“I don’t think we can go back to the party.”

“Probably not,” Donna says practically. She gathers herself and manages to sit up; she doesn’t want to think about the damage she’s done to her dress. When she turns to see his irrepressible grin, it’s absolutely worth it. “I have some spare clothes in my office.”

“Well, let’s get over there, and get undressed, and see what comes next,” he teases.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You love me though.”

“Beyond all reason.”

She stands up and dusts herself off, and holds out a hand to Josh for him to do the same, and before he can start heading back inside, she puts her hands in his hair and pulls him closer for another, deeper kiss. The snow continues to fall softly, and they’re out here all alone, and he’s her fiancé now, and they’ve almost made it through the first year, and this is beyond perfect.

Donna thinks, if she were to be asked to define happiness, it would look exactly like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Drop a comment or come chat with me (hufflepuffhermione on tumblr) if you feel so inclined-I'd love to hear from you.


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